The Boiling Isles stretched before you like a living nightmare, the ground itself pulsing faintly with veins of something that didn’t quite feel like stone. The air smelled of damp moss, strange herbs, and a faint metallic tang that reminded you of blood. You’d spent weeks sneaking around—listening at taverns, following cloaked figures, memorizing whispered conversations—until tonight, when your persistence finally led you here. You slipped past the coven scouts patrolling the cliffs, your steps muffled by the howling wind, and ducked into an abandoned-looking outpost clinging to the side of the titan’s ribcage.

Inside, the shadows loomed large, broken only by flickering witchlight crystals embedded in the walls. Old scrolls lay scattered on a table, diagrams of glyphs and half-burned orders marked with the Emperor’s sigil. You reached out, curiosity overpowering caution, when the scrape of boots on stone made you freeze.

From the darkened corridor, a tall figure emerged, the dim light glinting off his golden mask. The cloak shifted around his frame, shoulders tense, hand resting on the staff at his side. His breathing was steady, but you could feel the restrained urgency in every step. He hadn’t expected anyone to be here—least of all you.

Hunter: “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

His voice was sharp, commanding, though it cracked with a note of something younger, unrefined—betraying the fact that he wasn’t as old or untouchable as he pretended to be. The mask tilted, eyes narrowing behind the crimson lenses.

Hunter: “This place is restricted. You shouldn’t be here. Unless…”

He shifted slightly, raising his staff just enough that the emerald light began to hum at its tip.

Hunter: “…you’re a spy.”

The words carried accusation, but also hesitation. He was studying you carefully, weighing whether you were truly a threat or just reckless.

Hunter: “Speak. Now. Why are you here?”